


Greenhouses

by fuzipenguin



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Bondage, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Non-Consensual, Other, Oviposition, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Shock, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Tentacle Rape, Tentacles, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-16 04:30:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15429051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzipenguin/pseuds/fuzipenguin
Summary: In a dark, warm cave on an abandoned world, something waits for just the right conditions.





	1. Optimus

**Author's Note:**

> Marked for bondage, although its not in the traditional sense. Same for the oviposition tag.   
> This all started out as a drabble meant for a tumblr anon whose prompt asked for optimus/tentacles.

           Optimus is strong. The Matrix quadrupled his existing strength and there are few individuals who can stand toe to toe against his raw power. He’s always been grateful for that strength because it allows him to defend his people and their cause.

            But…

            Every now and then… he wishes that he were not strong.

            That he were not big and powerful.

            Sometimes he wishes he was small enough to shelter under someone else’s frame, letting them block out the world for a few short moments to allow Optimus to regain his focus. It can be exhausting to lead alone, to stand tall… be strong.

            He must always fight, always protect… never let his power sit idle. To do so would be irresponsible.

            And then he leads a small scouting party to a supposedly abandoned world. There had been some chatter on the airwaves about the Decepticons using the planet’s underground cavern system for storage of supplies and weapons. Their scanners had picked up the occasional flicker of moving heat; enough incentive to investigate.

            The first two caves had been completely empty, but the third… on the third, they had stumbled upon… something. Possibly an organic plant of some kind, muddy-red in color, and fast.

            So very fast.

            One moment Cliffjumper was looking down at his pedes in confusion and the next, the walls had come alive. Luminescent vines blinked on and shot out from every nook and cranny, slithering across their bodies. In less than three seconds, they had been pulled into the air, held aloft, feet dangling.

            Hoist hadn’t been holding a weapon, but Cliffjumper, Optimus, and Sideswipe all lost their hand-held blasters. Sunstreaker managed to keep ahold of his, and he had reflexively shot at the tentacle-like vines. A small tendril had quickly wound tight around Sunstreaker’s arm, forcing him to drop the weapon, but not before he managed to land three hits. Unfortunately, the weapon had barely even singed the surface of the plant.   

            It shouldn’t come as a surprise then that Optimus cannot break the tentacles’ hold on him. But it does, and the shock mounts until he reaches a panic. He’s more powerful than the others, and even though they are strong in their own right, when everyone else fails, it is his responsibility to prevail.

            Optimus struggles and struggles, until his body starts overheating. He momentarily rests and observes his comrades to see if they have fared any better.

            Hoist is still and quiet, his visor bright with stress. Sunstreaker and Cliffjumper are loudly shouting at one another, the angry words barely covering up their unease. Sideswipe is soothingly murmuring something in the twin speak he and Sunstreaker share, even as his gaze is darting around, assessing.

            Once Optimus’ body cools a bit, he starts fighting again, squirming and struggling. He strains until it feels like something in his frame will break and then he strains harder because it would be worth it.

            He gets nowhere.

            He rests and tries again. And again. And again.

            And then something inside him just… gives up.

            Nothing physical. Oh, his body will be sore if they make it out of this, but no part of his frame requires actual repair.

            No. It’s something in his processor. Something that tells him to stop, to cease struggling.

            So he does.

            Optimus stops straining, gradually relaxes each and every cable, one by one. After several minutes, he is limp.

            In response, the vines slowly loosen their stranglehold on him. They still have a good grip, but it no longer sets off pressure warnings across his plating. After a while, he thinks that maybe… maybe this isn’t so bad. He’s not being hurt. It’s almost… comforting… to be essentially swaddled like this. Held close, but not crushed.

            His optic shutters drift shut, and he intakes a large draught of moist air to slowly ex-vent it. His armor plates shift, letting out the heat that has built up beneath them. The worried voices of his Autobots fade slightly as the tentacles start to move.

            It starts out with miniscule slips forwards and backwards. The vines move smoothly over his plating, easing away the earlier painful ache. It becomes soothing, pleasant almost, and he barely notices when smaller tentacles stroke over his seams and then slip beneath the edges.

             “Sir? Optimus? Optimus!”

            Optimus blinks open his optics and slowly turns his head to look at Hoist. The medic is nearest to him, all five of them held aloft in a roughly pentagon shape. Sunstreaker is at the point farthest away, Cliffjumper closer to him than Sideswipe. Which is unfortunate. Optimus is certain that if the twins were closer together, Sideswipe would be better able to calm his volatile brother. As it stands, neither Sunstreaker nor Cliffjumper have stopped bickering since this all happened.

            “Yes, Hoist?”

            “The vines… the… tentacles… they appear to be… entering you.”

            The other mechs fall silent, and Optimus cranes his head forward to observe that Hoist is right. Multiple thin tentacles have snuck completely under Optimus’ plating, like wires to a medical monitoring device. They seem to be gravitating towards both his spark chamber and the apex of his thighs. The tiny tendrils are weaving through Optimus’ internals, bumping up against his spark housing and the nearby Matrix.

            The ancient relic does not light up in protest, so Optimus remains calm. Although he does admit the soft squirming under his interface cover is somewhat unnerving.

            “Does it hurt?” Sideswipe asks, optics shrewd as he watches the tentacles invade Optimus’ frame. He too has gone limp and some braver tendrils are slithering along his body’s seams.

            “No,” Optimus responds truthfully. “They loosen their hold once you relax a bit.”

            “Yeah, and that’s how they get ‘ya,” Cliffjumper spits. “What if they start ripping off pieces of you? Or devouring your spark?”

            The minibot is even tenser than before, his voice hoarse due to the strangling grip one tendril has around his throat.

            “I do not think that is its goal,” Optimus replies. His gaze wanders a bit when another tentacle brushes over his valve, feather-like. The tip of the vine swells a little, and Optimus reflexively lets his interface cover loosen as pressure builds up beneath it.

            “What _is_ its goal then?” Sunstreaker asks. The frontliner is biting his lower lip, staring worriedly at his twin. Sideswipe has his head back, an unfocused look on his face as more and more tentacles slip beneath the plating that he seems to have intentionally fluffed. It’s definitely an odd sight; no wonder Hoist had been concerned.

            “From where my little friends are congregating, I think it needs a power source to start up some sort of impregnation process,” Sideswipe says breezily. Hoist chokes out a horrified sound next to Optimus, and Sunstreaker glares at his brother.

            “That’s not funny, Sideswipe!” Sunstreaker exclaims. “Stop letting it do that!”

            Sideswipe’s head lolls forward, and he meets Sunstreaker’s optics. “Yeah, well, fighting wasn’t getting me anywhere. And this doesn’t hurt as opposed to it practically crushing me when I _was_ fighting it. Here… feel.”

            Sunstreaker jerks in response to whatever Sideswipe shows him along their bond, his tentacles automatically tightening. His look of frightened shock indicates Sunstreaker is not at all convinced.

            If Sideswipe’s tentacles are doing what Optimus’ are, it’s no wonder Sunstreaker looks uncertain. By now, Optimus’ tendrils have completely covered his spark casing, writhing eagerly over its surface as if soaking up the miniscule atoms of energy sparks normally produce.

            In addition to that… stimulating… sensation, there is still a tentacle rubbing over his valve. Up and down, smoothly, with just the right amount of pressure. It’s enough to cause a light amount of moisture to gather at his entrance and an automatic release of his cover.

            Optimus spares an instant to be afraid, to be embarrassed that the others will see. Then he shunts the care aside, just like he had earlier when he had stopped struggling. Besides, no one can fault his body for exhibiting an involuntary response to stimulating input.

            “Sir, I think Sideswipe may be right,” Hoist says, speaking up. Optimus looks over to observe Hoist in a similar state to Sideswipe and himself. “The thinner ones are very interested in the ambient spark energy and the bigger ones are…are seeking somewhere that is… _oh_ … warm and moist. Much like… the conditions of this cave, but more… nngh… more concentrated. “

            Hoist is obviously affected as much as Optimus is. He’s doing his best to not show it, although Sideswipe has no such compunctions. They’re all startled when he moans faintly, everyone’s heads automatically turning to look at him. Optimus quickly shifts his gaze higher when he spots the shimmer of lubricant decorating several of the tentacles wrapped around Sideswipe’s upper thighs.

            “’What… what did you do today?’” Sideswipe gasps. “Oh, just got… _frag_ … knocked up… by some squishy organinnngh!... thing…”

            “You are not convincing me here, Sideswipe,” Sunstreaker retorts sharply. He has relaxed enough that his vines have loosened, but he has not allowed them entry into his frame. They are certainly trying however, probing at his plating, looking for any areas that give.  

            It makes sense as all the vines are connected to one originating source. It serves to reason that the plant’s mind has learned it can enter them to find what it has been looking for.

            The tentacles are doing the same to Cliffjumper, petting his plating more and more insistently. He is still trying to fight, straining against the plant’s hold on him to the point that the tentacles appear to be denting him in places.

            “Let it happen, Sunny. Nothing else has worked.”

            “Sunstreaker, Cliffjumper…” Optimus calls and waits for them to turn their attention to him. “I believe it is our best option at the moment.”

            They’ve already proven that they can’t fight and win. Their only other alternative is to let go and see what happens next. Optimus is at peace with it.

            “NO!” Cliffjumper exclaims. “I’m not letting this… whatever it is… inside my spark.”

            “Not in your _spark_ , Cliffie…” Sideswipe says, voice becoming staticky. “Just… around it. It’s gonna go… oh my _Primus_ … in… in… your valve.”

            Sideswipe turns his head and tries to see around the bulk of his brother. “Hey, I don’t see… anyone else… lininnngh! …lining up to take you to bed. Let it… let it do its thing. Doesn’t hurt; kinda the opposite.”

            “Kinky fragger!” Cliffjumper snarls. Next to him, Sunstreaker lets out a small whimper as several tentacles race under the few pieces of armor he has managed to unclamp.

            “Sure am!” Sideswipe replies cheerfully to Cliffjumper. Then he returns his attention to his brother. “That’s it, Sunny. Just… just pretend it’s me… mmm… me touching you. Licking you… sliding my fingers into your…”

            “That’s not necessary, Sideswipe,” Optimus interjects, his hips subtly rocking. The larger tentacle has wormed its way past his outer valve pleats and has breached him. It pushes in, then withdraws before squirming deeper. The repetitive motion is not unlike a spike, although the side to side wiggle is odd. Yet it is still enough to increase his charge.

            “You sure… sure about that, boss bot?” Sideswipe replies cheekily. “I think… I think Hoist is enjoying it.”

            Hoist is too far gone to retort. His head is thrown back and he’s whining quietly, visor dim. From here, Optimus can see the medic has his own penetrating tentacle, thick at the level of his knee, but more narrow the higher up Hoist’s legs it goes. Optimus can’t quite see Hoist’s valve, but can observe the vine slowly entering and pulling out of Hoist’s body in steady thrusts, moving deeper each time.

            “That’s it, that’s it,” Sideswipe croons quietly, soft enough Optimus has to strain to hear his voice. “It doesn’t hurt… it’s just fingers… just fingers at your seams. Stroking… no pain… they just want under… wanna find your sensory clusters… tug at ‘em… rub ‘em…”

            Optimus is having a hard time focusing. The blunt head of his tentacle is pressing against his ceiling node, gently twisting to the left, then the right, then back again. It feels… wonderful… and Sideswipe’s words are a dark, lustful slither into Optimus’ audials.

            It’s one thing to experience all of this in the company of his comrades. It’s quite another to listen to one of his soldiers’ dirty talk to his mate. Optimus turns his head to chastise Sideswipe again, but the words die before they even reach his lips.

            Sunstreaker is ventilating quickly in stress, his blindly staring optics going a pale blue. But Sideswipe isn’t talking to his twin. He’s craning his neck forward, directing his words towards the minibot on the other side of Sunstreaker.

            Cliffjumper’s optics are clenched shut, drops of optical fluid welling up and spilling over his cheeks. He keeps shaking his head with short little jerks; at Sideswipe’s words or what is happening to his body, Optimus can’t tell.

            There’s a brief flare of recrimination at himself that is quickly obliterated when a heat blooms deep in his valve. He gasps and arches as well as he can as the warmth spreads through his pelvis. His valve spasms around its intruder, clenching down on it in little ripples as an overload washes over him.

            He feels something almost like a mech spilling transfluid inside him. Immediately after he registers a hot, slippery sensation at the entrance to his valve and liquid trailing down the inside of his thighs. 

            Optimus should probably care to speculate if the material is corrosive or damaging in some way, but he can’t. He feels dazed and even limper than before. He makes no sound as the supporting vines briefly tighten on him and then a moment later he is prone, staring up at the ceiling. His thighs are spread wide, passing air currents tickling his wet components.

            He starts to regain some coherency, and hears Sideswipe still murmuring, his voice gaining urgency. Hoist is crying out and gasping close by but the other two are far enough away he can’t hear them.

            There’s nothing he can do for any of them anyway. All he can do is lie in the plant’s embrace and take whatever it gives him.

            The bliss lingers, drawn out as a second, thinner tentacle slips inside along the first. As it pushes deep, the larger one begins to draw back. In doing so, it drags across the floor of his valve, catching a little on the closed iris to his gestational chamber. The vine hesitates before continuing to retreat completely and the second, smaller one prods at the tiny opening.

            As relaxed as Optimus is, the thin tip is able to worm through, more and more of it passing into his holding tank. For a moment, it lays quiescent and then it pulses. Another burst of that delicious warmth explodes inside him, deeper still, and Optimus finally moans out loud as the pleasure spreads throughout his entire body.

            It feels so good, he barely realizes that the small tentacle is growing bigger, wider. It continues to enlarge in circumference, opening up the gestational orifice with it. Soon it is the same size as the original vine and it doesn’t stop there. It keeps growing until his valve calipers shiver with the strain and his ventilations catch at the balancing point of pleasure and discomfort. It’s enough to bring Optimus up from his haze, into a cacophony of sound.

            Someone is screaming, someone else is hoarsely yelling. Someone’s engine is hiccupping in distress and Optimus can do nothing about it. He’s been robbed of his own voice, his body overcome. His spark chamber aches, like there is outside pressure being exerted on it and he feels stuffed full, overfull.

            All at once, every single tentacle goes still. One of the other Autobots whimper and the screaming dies down to pitiful cries.

            “It’s ok. It’s ok, just stay relaxed, don’t fight it,” Sideswipe babbles, but even his voice is strained now.

            “… it’s in me… it’s _in me_ …” the cries evolve into actual words. “…it’s in my _tank_!”

            “Yeah… well… I told you: impregnation,” Sideswipe replies shakily.

            “I DIDN’T THINK YOU MEANT IT LITERALLY!!” Cliffjumper yells and then starts sobbing.

            Optimus wonders if the others are experiencing the same thing that he is. If the tentacles enlarged to their bodies’ capacities or past it. Optimus prays Cliffjumper’s tentacle is not the same size as his own.

            The plant suddenly shivers and Optimus feels the vibration of it down to his struts. A brief spurt of warmth inside him heralds his penetrating tentacle suddenly spasming. It twitches and trembles, then quiets. After a moment it shudders again and this cycle repeats itself several times.

            “Oh Primus… what _now_?” Cliffjumper moans.

            Optimus can’t say. The vibrations and the earlier heat pushes him onto the cusp of another overload. It’s not quite enough to tip him over the edge though, and he’s kept there for several more minutes until the plant pauses once more.

            He whines out a protest, wanting to thrust his hips up and receive that last little bit of friction. He wishes he had his hand free to rub at his anterior node, to trace the wide spread of his valve lips around the tentacle. He’s so close...        

            Suddenly the tentacle inside him stiffens. Immediately after it begins contracting down small and expanding to the full range of his calipers in slow waves. The lips of his valve registers a moving heat between one ebb and flow, and then it enters him. It’s not as pervasive as that first burst of warmth, but it still feels wonderful. Optimus’ optics dim and offline as he gives himself over to the sensation. On the third pulse inward, he overloads.

            The groan tears out of him and he convulses, entire body shuddering. This only serves to speed up the waves and right on the tail of one overload, he has another.

            Optimus’ audials pick up echoes of his own moans as well as those of his soldiers. Some are more pain-filled than the others and he absently hopes that Cliffjumper and Sunstreaker have finally relaxed completely.

            The ball of heat makes its way deeper, past the end of his valve and directly into his gestational tank. Once it reaches there, it pauses, and then Optimus registers pressure inside the chamber. The sensors there are different than inside his valve and he can’t quite tell what is happening. But the tentacle continues to pulse and wave after wave of heat travels down it.

            Optimus’ frame is awash with bliss. His internal temperature soars, fuel pump beating fiercely and spark continuously flaring. The tiny vines covering its chamber writhe and whip about, adding to the sensory input.

            It goes on for several minutes, long enough that Optimus worries his body will give out. His HUD is angrily throwing up warnings about overheating, low fuel and coolant levels, but there is nothing he can do about it except endure.

            Just when he feels dizzy enough to lose conscious, the pulses start slowing down. It’s then he registers the immense pressure inside his gestational chamber, the oversensitivity to his valve. Several more weak pulses pushes Optimus into one last painful overload, his voice box whistling shrilly from overuse.

            Every tentacle inside him abruptly goes quiescent, then one by one, they slowly withdraw from under his plating. The one in his valve is the last to go, prompting a large gush of liquids to follow its retreating form, now shrunk down to half its largest size.

            Optimus moans pitifully at the ache it leaves behind, his upper legs well and truly soaked. The supporting vines squeeze him gently and it feels like he is being moved. Weak and nauseous, Optimus closes his optics again and lets the creature maneuver him a short distance away. It feels like another chamber to the cave, even warmer and devoid of the dry, raspy sound of the main mass of tentacles moving against one another.

            Gently, like a lover, the supporting vines deposit him onto a soft surface. Then they uncoil from his body and slither away. For the first time in what feels like days, he is free to move.

             For a long while, Optimus doesn’t. He lies still, trying to make sense of the information his body is giving him and listening to the sounds around him. He hears rustling, the occasional metal chime. Then there’s a hiss and light bursts across the back of his optic shutters.

            “Sir? Sir, are you all right?”

            A hand pats at Optimus’ shoulder and he finally opens his optics. Hoist is leaning over him.

            Optimus carefully sits up, and winces when he feels tightness across his abdomen. Hoist keeps a hand on his shoulder and continues to peer into his face.

            “I… am all right as I can be, I suppose,” Optimus slowly replies, taking stock. There is a lantern sitting on the sandy ground, Sideswipe fiddling with the output until the small cave they are in is well-lit.

            Sideswipe looks up at him, smiling thinly. “Then you’re already doing better than some of us. Hoist… really think you need to look at CJ.”

            Hoist and Optimus turn their attention to Cliffjumper. The minibot is lying motionless on the ground where the plant had placed him. His legs are still spread and there is an alarming amount of pink mixed in with a glistening green substance that Optimus assumes is what the plant discharged inside of them.

            Hoist rushes over to Cliffjumper and Optimus looks down to see that his panel is still open like the minibot’s. As he’s debating modesty vs removing the goo, a shadow falls over him and he looks up just in time to see Sideswipe directing Sunstreaker to sit down next to Optimus.

            Sunstreaker’s optics are open, but they are completely unfocused. He’s trembling quite badly, enough to rattle Optimus’ plating when Sideswipe grunts and shoves Sunstreaker up against him. Optimus looks up at Sideswipe in confusion.

            “I figure the two of you can be shell-shocked together,” Sideswipe replies to the silent question. He reaches out and lifts Optimus’ arm, dropping it along Sunstreaker’s shoulders.

            “Sunny, love, you stay with Prime, ok?” Sideswipe says softly, looking into his twin’s face. “Hoist is working with Cliff, and I’m going to see about a way out of here. Then we’ll go home and have Ratchet wash whatever that was out of us.”

            Sunstreaker is silent, unmoving, except for the shivering. Sideswipe looks uncertain for a moment before giving himself a little shake. As he turns, Optimus speaks up.

            “Shell-shocked?”

            He doesn’t feel shocked. He doesn’t feel much of anything really.  

            Sideswipe raises an orbital ridge and looks Optimus up and down before snorting once. “Can you watch my brother for me, please?” he asks instead of answering Optimus’ question.

            As Sunstreaker seems to be in no hurry to move at the moment, it appears to be a task well within Optimus’ capability.

            “Of course,” he replies genially.

            “Awesome. Hoist, you need anything?” Sideswipe calls as he stands.

            “To be on the shuttle on the way to the Ark would be great,” Hoist replies, remaining crouched over Cliffjumper.

            “Working on it,” Sideswipe replies. He walks over to one wall of the cave and then begins making his way around its circumference, hand trailing along the surface. At one point, he disappears behind Optimus. He could turn to follow the frontliner, but it seems like a great deal of effort. Sideswipe seems to know what he’s doing.

            Optimus leans against Sunstreaker, tightening his grip against the other mech’s shoulder to tug him closer. The frontliner’s trembling has eased some. Optimus feels better pressed against another metal body, so maybe Sunstreaker does as well.

            An unknown amount of time later, Sideswipe drops down into a crouch in front of Optimus. He blinks down at the red mech and nods at him in greeting.

            “So… plant’s dead? I think?” Sideswipe says. “I walked all the way up to the exit, and it didn’t even twitch. It looks all dried out.” He makes a face. “Makes sense since it squirted so much of itself up inside us. I think I left a trail. A very not sexy trail.”

            “That’s disgusting,” Hoist says, appearing behind Sideswipe. “So we can just… leave?”

            “Appears like?” Sideswipe says, shrugging. “I even grabbed our weapons and everything. A little anticlimactic if you ask me, but I’ll take it. I wanna get home.”

            “As do I. Although once we do, we won’t be able to leave the shuttle for a while,” Hoist says. Optimus watches the medic walk back over to Cliffjumper. He lifts Cliffjumper into his arms and then faces the three of them.

            “I’m sorry, what?” Sideswipe asks flatly. He’d been in the process of leaning down for Sunstreaker when Hoist’s words made him whip around. “What do you mean?”

            “We have clearly been contaminated by an alien substance, Sideswipe,” Hoist says. “The shuttle will act as a contamination unit until it’s determined that we are not contagious.”

            Sideswipe is silent for several seconds before he bends back down, moving jerkily. “Great. That sounds awesome.”

            “Sideswipe… there are a great many mecha on the Ark. We cannot risk their safety,” Hoist says quietly. “No matter how we feel.”

            Sideswipe nods and then reaches out, cradling the sides of Sunstreaker’s face. “Sunny? Stand up for me, love?”

            Optimus peers down at the mech at his side, but Sunstreaker doesn’t stir or otherwise acknowledge his brother. Sideswipe sighs and grips Sunstreaker’s shoulders, tugging. It’s enough to get Sunstreaker moving. Once Sunstreaker is standing, Sideswipe holds out a hand in front of Optimus’ nasal ridge.

            “Your turn, Prime.”

            Optimus blinks myopically at Sideswipe’s hand for several moments before grasping it. With Sideswipe’s help, he manages to push himself to his feet. He sways a moment before catching his balance and nods his thanks to Sideswipe.

             “Is it a long walk?” He liked sitting down more than standing. He hopes that it won’t take long to get to wherever they’re going so he can rest again.

            “Nope. Just follow me,” Sideswipe says cheerily. He grabs his brother’s arm and starts moving past Optimus. A moment later, Sideswipe pauses, takes a few steps back and grasps Optimus wrist, lightly tugging.

            Realizing his processor had wandered a bit, Optimus stumbles forward, bemusedly allowing Sideswipe to tow him along behind the twins. Optimus could walk on his own, but his vision is a little fuzzy at the edges. And Sideswipe doesn’t seem to mind.

            The walk out seems to take hours, when in fact, it probably takes mere minutes. In short order, Optimus is blinking up at the two weak suns overhead.

            “Almost there, Prime. Come on, everyone else is loaded up,” someone says from somewhere near his elbow.

            Optimus looks down to see Sideswipe standing there. The frontliner’s alone. Hoist, Cliffjumper, and Sunstreaker are all gone, and the shuttle’s door is open.

            “Are we leaving?” Optimus asks, confused. Wasn’t there something they had come here to do?

            Sideswipe bites his lower lip before nodding and giving Optimus a smile. Optimus relaxes at the bright grin, reassured. If Sideswipe is smiling, things are not really that bad. “Yeah. We’re leaving. Unless you want to stay? But I bet it’d be nice to go back home to your own bed, right?”

            At the mention of his overlarge berth, Optimus suddenly feels an ache in every strut of his body. “Yes, that would be nice.”

            “Great, let’s go!” Sideswipe starts backing up, looking at him as if he’s not sure Optimus will follow. But Optimus does. All the way up the ramp, through the shuttle door and then into the chair which is honestly a little small for him, but is still the largest on the shuttle. Sideswipe does up his safety belt for him, muttering something under his breath that Hoist hushes him for.

            “I’m just saying a little help would be nice!” Sideswipe retorts, moving towards the front of the ship.

            “There’s not exactly a manual on how to deal with this sort of thing,” Hoist returns. Optimus idly wonders what they are referring to and his gazes settles on Sideswipe, who is now fastening himself into the pilot seat. Sunstreaker is next to him in the co-pilot seat, eerily still.

            “Oh, I’m pretty certain we’ve got all the chapters down,” Sideswipe retorts bitterly. He starts flipping a series of switches so aggressively that the sharp crack of each flicking upward makes Optimus flinch. “I mean Cliffjumper mastered catatonia, boss has practically reverted to sparkling hood, and I’m gonna win an award for pretending everything’s just hunky dory, because otherwise I’ll collapse into a fragging mess in the _fragging corner_!”

            Silence rings in the cabin after Sideswipe’s outburst. After a moment, he shudders and drops his face into his hands. From here, all Optimus can see is the top of Sideswipe’s shoulders, hunched forward and oddly small.

            “Sideswipe? Are you all right?” Hoist asks worriedly, leaning forward in his seat.

            Sideswipe doesn’t move for a few seconds. Then he shakes his head and straightens up, putting his hands on the controls. Sideswipe’s fingers are trembling ever so slightly.

            “No. He won’t stop screaming in the back of our spark,” Sideswipe whispers softly, staring straight ahead through the viewshield. “But don’t worry; I can still get us out of here.”

            “Sideswipe… the offer of a sedative stands…” Hoist replies, wringing his hands together as if he doesn’t know how to proceed. It’s quite uncharacteristic of the stoic medic.  

            Sideswipe shakes his head and starts punching another series of buttons on the console. “I rather him screaming than silent, to be honest. Might not be a bad idea to give some to Big Blue though. I think he’s getting worse and I’d rather him knocked out than suddenly rampaging around in here.”

            Hoist looks over his shoulder at Optimus. Optimus blinks back at him, thinking about working on his piloting skills more. They’ve never been great, although they’ll do in a pinch. Fortunately, both the twins and Cliffjumper are all excellent pilots.

            “I think you’re right. Optimus. Sir?”

            Optimus stirs to see Hoist standing in front of him, holding out a patch chip. “Is that for me?”

            “Yes, sir. Go ahead and use it now. It’ll let you get some rest.”

            “Rest? I suppose I am a bit tired,” Optimus muses. He takes the chip from Hoist’s hand and inserts it in his forearm port. Almost immediately his systems feel sluggish, a soft lassitude spreading through his lines. He lets his head fall back against the seat of the chair and closes his optics.

 

\--

 

            Two softly arguing voices welcome him to awareness. He can’t quite make out the words, so he opens his optics and turns his head. Ratchet are Hoist are but a few feet away, gesticulating at one another.

            “... to visit as soon as possible! This was deeply traumatic for them, Ratchet!”

            “Hoist. Hoist, I am aware,” Ratchet replies, reaching out to place his hands on his fellow medic’s shoulders.

            “Ratchet?”

            At the sound of Optimus’ voice, both medics turn to look at him. Ratchet hurries over, grabbing a scanner on the way. As they are still in the shuttle, it’s but a few steps before Ratchet is crowding into Optimus’ space, running the device over him.

            “How are you feeling?”

            “I feel… more awake,” Optimus replies after a moment. His processor is still running a little slow from the sedative, but he’s much more himself now. The memories of the hours before he went into recharge have a hazy air about them, and Optimus realizes Sideswipe had been right; Optimus had been in a deep shock.

            “Is everyone…?”

            “Alive, yes. Contagious? Perceptor’s working on it at a microscopic level,” Ratchet replies shortly, “although from what I can tell, all the foreign material is benign.”

            “Cliffjumper was bleeding…” Optimus recalls suddenly. He sits up straighter and looks around, concerned about one of his smallest, but fiercest soldiers.

            “An easy enough fix,” Ratchet replies, gently pushing on Optimus’ shoulder until he relaxes back against the seat. “An inner valve tear. According to what Sideswipe has told me, Cliffjumper was resisting until the very end. I have him deeply sedated right now.”

            “Is he in pain?” Optimus presses.

            “He’s on plenty of neural buffers as well. But I’m more concerned about the state of his mind. All of yours, actually. This was a terrible experience, Optimus,” Ratchet says, viewing the scanner results.

            “I… I couldn’t do anything…” Optimus says softly, gaze fixed on the floor. “The plant’s arms… they were so strong…”

            “No one blames you, Optimus,” Ratchet says, head shooting up. “You were right to instruct them not to fight it. Physically, you and Sideswipe resisted the least and it shows. Somehow, the plant knew each of your frame’s limits and didn’t push past them. It was only when one of you struggled that physical damage actually occurred.”

            Optimus glances towards the front of the shuttle and the pilot seat. It itself is empty, but Sideswipe and Sunstreaker have somehow managed to wedge themselves in the small space beneath the console.

            Sideswipe is facing out, Sunstreaker’s frame nearly obscured by his twin’s. Both of them appear offline, and Sideswipe is clutching a knife in one of his hands.

            Ratchet follows Optimus’ gaze and sighs. “Sideswipe’s just recharging; Sunstreaker is sedated. Sunstreaker is… not doing well mentally. Physically, he had some miniscule tearing in his valve lining, although nothing like what Cliffjumper experienced.”

            “Sideswipe said Sunstreaker was screaming in their spark,” Optimus says, remembering Sideswipe’s outburst. He suddenly feels horrible. Optimus had shut down, leaving Sideswipe to deal both with his brother and Optimus while Hoist took care of Cliffjumper.

            “I don’t doubt it. They have a checkered past; this might have brought up some bad memories,” Ratchet says. He stills for a moment, optics flashing.

            “And that was Perceptor. We’re in the clear so I’m going to bring you all into Medical. You’ll all be off duty for several cycles while you recover. Both physically and mentally.”

            Optimus glances at Hoist, remembering the conversation he had woken up in the middle of. “You want to bring Smokescreen in,” he guesses.

            Hoist nods. The medic looks exhausted and once more Optimus feels a stab of guilt. “We all need a counseling session... or a dozen. Although I do agree first we need to get this… stuff… out of us,” Hoist replies, gesturing to his abdomen.

            “It won’t be a pleasant process, I’m afraid,” Ratchet says wearily. “And better done when awake.”

            “I suppose we should get started then,” Optimus says. His spark feels heavy and leaden.

            He had failed them. He had failed them all today. How could they ever forgive him?


	2. Sideswipe

           “Ok, arms up!” Sideswipe says, pushing lightly on the underside of first Sunstreaker’s left, then right elbow. Still staring ahead blankly, Sunstreaker complies, his limbs slowly raising.

            “Good job, bro,” Sideswipe remarks, directing the water stream down Sunstreaker’s sides. “See? Feeling better already, right?”

            Sunstreaker remains silent and Sideswipe feels his resolve begin to crumple again. He counts to five and then forces down those dark thoughts which are circling so close by.

            Earlier, it had been quickly apparent that he needed to step up so they could all escape and go home. Now, it’s just Sunstreaker relying on Sideswipe, but he’s the most important of them all. Sunstreaker doesn’t need Sideswipe falling apart on him now.

            “You know, this just means you get to repaint us,” Sideswipe announces, grabbing the sponge and attacking the dried patches of goo on Sunstreaker’s upper thighs. Sunstreaker’s paint is worse because he fought more, but they both still have patches that have been rubbed right off.

            “I’m thinking this time around, I’m gonna go pure white. Blind all our enemies on the field. I mean, you can’t have the monopoly on that, right?”

            Sideswipe continues to chatter out loud, echoing it across the bond, hoping that something will spark his brother into awareness. The screaming stopped with the addition of the sedative, but ever since it started wearing off, there’d just been an eerie silence. A toxic silence which has started eating away at Sideswipe.

            Sunstreaker is typically the quiet one when it comes to the verbal, but across the bond, he practically never shuts up. He always has a comment (or two) on everything and everybody, and that’s on top of the low level humming sound/sensation he constantly makes, even while in recharge.

            There’s nothing now. Sideswipe keeps trying for a response, but it’s like he’s talking into a void.

            “Alrighty, not half bad,” Sideswipe says, hanging the handheld shower head back on the hook. “That’s the outside, although I feel like we’re gonna have to do it again after.”

            He shakes the excess water from his hands and grabs a towel for a quick dry of both of them. There’s no point in getting too detailed as their tanks still need to be flushed. But Sideswipe thought maybe a few minutes alone in the familiarity of the washracks would wake Sunstreaker up a little.

            No such luck, so they might as well get on with the next step.

            He steps out into the main vestibule of the washracks and then opens the door at the opposite end of the room. Poking his head out into the hallway, he looks left than right before finding Ratchet puttering around in a supply closet several doors down.

             “Ratchet, we’re ready.”

              The medic grabs several items and shuts the door, nodding. “I have everything we’ll need here. I’ll get everything set up and then… I could either show you how to use this, or I could do it for you. “

            Sideswipe examines the tangle of tubes and wires in Ratchet’s arms and shudders. They look far too much like vines. “I like neither option, really. Isn’t there something you could give us to, you know…” he gestures down at himself. “… push it out?”

            “You’re not actually carrying, Sideswipe,” Ratchet explains. “None of your receptors have been primed for something like an induction agent.”

            Sideswipe sighs. He was afraid of that. “Ok. Do me, and I’ll do Sunny.”

            Ratchet nods and follows Sideswipe back into the shower stall. He puts one set of tubing on the floor out of the way and then starts unfolding the second set of lines. Sideswipe watches for several moments before a thought crosses his processor. He considers it for several seconds and sighing reluctantly, he goes about divesting Sunstreaker of every weapon Sideswipe knows about and setting them outside the stall.

            Just as he finishes, Ratchet looks at him and indicates he’s ready. Sideswipe shakes his head and starts pulling his own weaponry out of all his compartments and subspace.

            “What exactly are you doing?” Ratchet asks, bemused. He also seems a little startled at the sheer amount of guns and knives that are piling up outside the stall.

            “Can’t pull a gun on you if I don’t have one on me,” Sideswipe explains blithely. “You’re strong enough to pin me if you need to. No promises that I won’t bite you or something, though.”

            Ratchet stares at him. “Sideswipe…”

            “I trust you, Ratch. More than anyone except Sunstreaker,” Sideswipe says bluntly. “I like you a lot and I don’t want to hurt you, but I might fall back on old instincts.”

            He’s getting jitterier by the second and he wishes he could close his optics and it would all be over. But that’s not an option and he’d rather have the load of… whatever it is sloshing around his chamber out of him sooner rather than later.

            “I trust you too. And I know you won’t hurt me, sprocket,” Ratchet says gently, patting him on the cheek. “Here… I think it best you stand against that wall,” he says, gesturing to where he wants Sideswipe. It’s the wall closest to the drain, which makes sense. It’s also the furthest from the exit and Sideswipe tries to ignore the way his plating crawls when he makes his way over.

            Ratchet snags the adjustable stool used for invalids who are too weak to stand. He places it to the side and lines up several bottles of a clear liquid. Then he gently pats Sideswipe’s outer right thigh.

            “Alright, spread.”

            “What, you’re not even gonna buy me dinner first?” Sideswipe jokes, already beginning to shake as he slides his pedes apart. Ratchet creakily drops to his knees in front of him and shuffles closer, tapping at Sideswipe’s ankle until he exposes himself enough for Ratchet to work.  

            “After all those times you glued my tools to the ceiling?” Ratchet scoffs. “You’re lucky you get lube.”

            Sideswipe rests his head against the wall, but can’t close his optics. He knows its Ratchet between his feet, and like he said… he trusts Ratchet. None of the other medics would ever have been allowed to do this, especially after what he and Sunstreaker had just been through.

            Well. Maybe Hoist. But apparently he’s taking care of himself and then Cliffjumper when he wakes up. Prime has already had this done by Ratchet while Sunstreaker’s frame cleared the last of his sedation.

            Still. No matter how much he trusts Ratchet, how much his processor knows it’s him… there’s a deeper part of Sideswipe’s base coding that is screaming at him to strike out, grab Sunny, and run. Find somewhere to hole up and lick their wounds.

            Sideswipe does his best to ignore that urge. He keeps his optics open, although he doesn’t watch. He stares off into the distance, just barely able to see the points of Ratchet’s chevron below his field of vision.

            “Yay. Lube,” Sideswipe responds lamely. It’s kind of hard to make a snappy comeback when he feels Ratchet’s hands land on his inner thighs.

            “Which I can’t actually use until you open your panel, Sideswipe,” Ratchet says quietly.

            Sideswipe laughs nervously, his fuel pump firing madly. Primus. He has to go through this again. And he has to keep himself still; no helpful vines doing the job for him.

            “Right. Panel… ‘course.”

            It takes nearly a minute before Sideswipe can comply. Once he does, there’s a flood of liquid that runs out of him. He shudders as it slicks his thighs, and he clenches his hands into fists to keep from reflexively clawing it off him.

            “Good. Good job, Sideswipe,” Ratchet says soothingly. “All right, next step. The first thing I’m going to do is insert a thin nozzle. This is going to be fed all the way through your valve until it meets your gestational tank orifice.”

            “Orifice. That’s such a f-funny word,” Sideswipe stutters as he registers a soft touch at his valve. There is so much liquid seeping out of him that at least he barely feels the penetration.

            “Mmm, I suppose so. Any pain?”

            Ratchet grips Sideswipe’s left hip with a firm hand and Sideswipe shakes his head, appreciating the grounding touch. “Nope. This is already so much better than the plant thing, gotta tell ya, Ratch. You got my consent and everything so you’re already number one in my book.”

            Despite that, Sideswipe feels the panic rise as the nozzle creeps inward. He shrugs his shoulders and wriggles his fingers just to remember that he still can.

            “Is that the part that upset Sunstreaker the most?” Ratchet asks idly.

            “The most? Hard to say the most,” Sideswipe muses, because everything they had just gone through had been awful. Every aspect of it. “But you know how we are with consent.”

            Neither he nor Sunstreaker have ever been very forthcoming with details about their backgrounds although they’ve let some things slip to Ratchet. He’s a smart mech; they’re pretty sure he has an inkling of what their younger years were like.

            “I believe that’s not just you,” Ratchet says softly. “Steady, Sides. We’re almost there.”

            Sideswipe sucks in a large vent of air and holds it for as long as he possibly can. His optics dart from the water streaming down the far wall to Sunstreaker’s back, to the floor and then to Ratchet’s chevron again. None of it is distracting enough.

            He desperately wants his brother.

            “Nnngh… I can’t decide if I want you to go slower or faster,” Sideswipe gasps out, finally releasing the air in one large huff.

            “Do you want me to stop?” The hard nozzle stills inside him.

            Oh, frag _yes_. To stop and walk away and never try Sideswipe’s trust like this again. But he firmly reminds himself that none of this is Ratchet’s fault and shakes his head.

            “No. Finish it. I want to get Sunny done and drag him to bed so we can have wonderful nightmares together.”

            The nozzle progresses deeper and makes Sideswipe jerk when it slips against his ceiling node. He speaks again, trying to think of something else, anything else. “How… how does it know where to go?”

            “It’s coded specifically for the ori… opening. Sometimes sparklings don’t make it and they don’t always reabsorb properly. This tool is used specifically for that,” Ratchet explains.

            Well. Damn. Anything else but that.

            “For flushing dead sparklings out of their carrier’s tank?” Sideswipe asks, the horror rising. “Primus, that’s… that’s…”

            He’s always liked sparklings, always wanted to have one. Now he doesn’t think he could ever entertain the notion of carrying one, even if he’d ever be able to conceive. His chamber has been utterly and completely contaminated. Contaminated with that alien’s seed, covering every micrometer of his insides, dripping and swirling…

            “Sides… Sideswipe… calm down…” Ratchet warns, but Sideswipe can barely hear it over the roaring in his audials.

            He feels too hot, sick to his tanks, and he thinks he may purge. Or run. Or fight. His body is the picture of conflicting emotions and he rocks in place, a whine building up in the back of his throat.

            “Sideswipe!” Ratchet calls, and Sideswipe frantically tries to hold on to the sound of his voice. “It’s all right… you’re back on the Ark… nothing will hurt you here…”

            Something in his valve pinches and he’s lost. His processor flashes back, farther than the cave, farther than the Autobots, before the gladiator rings even. There are hands on him, four, then six, and they punch and grip, and hold him still, force his thighs wide, and he can’t… he can’t…

            His optics are still open and receiving input, and it’s the only reason he spots the movement on the opposite side of the stall. A white hot rush of fury douses him like a bucket of water, and he lunges forward just in time to block the punch Sunstreaker aims at the back of Ratchet’s head.

            “Primus!” Ratchet gasps, ducking out of the way, but far too late if Sideswipe hadn’t intervened.

            “Sunny, no!” Sideswipe shouts, both verbally and across the bond.

            Sunstreaker stumbles, his head raising up. Their optics meet and while Sunstreaker’s gaze is hazy, it’s more aware than it has been over the past few hours. That low level hum is abruptly back and Sideswipe wants to melt in sheer relief.

            “He’s hurting you!” Sunstreaker protests, trying to wrest his hand back out of Sideswipe’s grip. Sideswipe lets him go, reaching out to grasp Sunstreaker’s shoulders.

            “No, Sunny. It’s only Ratchet. And he’s not hurting me,” Sideswipe says earnestly.

            Sunstreaker stares at Ratchet for a long moment before his expression clears all the way. “Ratchet?”

            “That would be me,” Ratchet replies drily. He’s staring warily up at Sunstreaker.

            Smart mech. And he had looked at Sideswipe like he was crazy when he had divested the two of them of weapons. Of course… they by themselves _are_ a weapon, a fact Ratchet is well aware of, judging by how still he’s being.

            Sunstreaker’s attention turns back to Sideswipe, looking confused. “Sides? You were _terrified_. Are you ok?”

            Sideswipe’s mouth opens and closes several times before he’s finally able to answer. “No. Frag, no,” he whispers. He leans forward and rests his forehelm against his twin’s shoulder and just… sinks into the bond, reveling in the connection.

            Sunstreaker grasps him around the waist, automatically nuzzling the top of Sideswipe’s head. “What’s going on? Weren’t we supposed to go on a scouting mis… oh.”

            Sideswipe feels the memories organize themselves in Sunstreaker’s processor, feels the remembered horror, anger, and helplessness. He grips his brother tighter, shaking him a little.

            “Please, don’t go away on me like that again,” he whispers into the side of Sunstreaker’s neck. “I know it was bad, I _know_. But I need you. I can’t do this on my own anymore.”

            Sunstreaker shudders and his fingers dig into Sideswipe’s lower back. “I’m sorry; I’m here. I won’t leave you again, I promise.”

            They stay huddled together like that for several minutes more until Ratchet clears the back of his intake. The twins break away enough to stare down at him. He’s still on his knees, which probably isn’t doing his frame any good.

            “While I’m glad you’re back with us, Sunstreaker, we still need to get this finished…” Ratchet says, holding up the tubing. Which is still connected to Sideswipe’s valve.

            Awkward.


	3. Hoist

            Hoist doesn’t need anyone to help him, although both Ratchet and First Aid offer. It’s kind of them, but if anything else is going up his valve today, it’s going to be by his choice and by his hand.

            It’s an unpleasant task, but he gets it done. His own internal scan reads no more contaminants after almost thirty minutes of rinsing. He continues for another ten, just to be sure.

            Once he finally feels clean again, he dries off and goes to check in on Cliffjumper. He feels responsible for his care, especially since he began it. Ratchet lets him; Hoist isn’t sure if it’s for Cliffjumper’s sake or Hoist’s. He doesn’t mind either way; he’s just grateful he can be busy. It helps keep his mind off what happened.

            When he enters Cliffjumper’s recovery room, he sees that the minibot is awake. He’s sitting up, pedes dangling over the edge of the bed. He looks disorientated and Hoist wants to rush to him, reassure him, but he’s not sure how Cliffjumper would take it.

            “Cliffjumper?” Hoist starts out saying.

            The minibot turns around and stares at Hoist for a long moment before nodding a greeting. “Hey, Hoist. I see we’re back on the Ark. Guess we’re not contagious, huh?”

            “No. No, we’re not. The plant deposited what amounts to its seedlings in our gestational chambers. They weren’t internally damaging, nor transmissible. So we’ve been washing up, rinsing out our tanks. It’s a slow process, and not exactly fun, but…”

            “Can I do it? Now?” Cliffjumper asks, pushing himself off the edge of the berth to land on his feet. He winces slightly, hand coming up to cradle his abdomen. “Please?”

            He stares up at Hoist, optics begging, and Hoist can’t find it in him to delay the process any longer for the other mech. He himself had certainly felt the urgency to proceed as quickly as possible once they had gone into Medical.

            “Yes, although we’ll need to do a few things first before we can get started,” Hoist replies. He gestures at the berth.

            “You sustained several tears in your valve lining from the plant’s penetration. While the tears have been fixed, they’ll still be tender. To prevent further injury, I would like to numb the area,” Hoist explains.

            Cliffjumper looks up at the berth warily. “How’re you gonna do that?”

            “There are two options. I can insert a numbing gel into your valve; unfortunately, it would likely have to be reapplied several times during the process.”

            Cliffjumper is already shaking his head, shuffling backwards away from Hoist. “I’ll pick the second one.”

            “I haven’t even said what it is,” Hoist says mildly.

            “I don’t care. I ain’t putting anything up my valve unless it’s gonna be to flush the rest of this gunk out!” Cliffjumper states.

            “I understand. The second option is to place a sensory block in your lower back. That would numb you from your pelvis on down. As standing facilitates the flush, I would need to bring a second mech in to help me. I would not be able to both hold you and direct the solution.”

            Cliffjumper tilts his head to the side, considering. “One of the other medics?”

            Hoist nods, then blinks as he assesses everyone else’s location. “You have your choice: Ratchet is still helping the twins and will be a while longer. First Aid is with a patient, but should be finishing up soon. Wheeljack is in his lab but said he could easily be pulled in to assist with whatever we needed.”

            “I’d rather Ratchet, but ‘Jack will do. Sooner the better,” Cliffjumper replies. “Where we going?”

            “The washracks. Follow me.”

            Limping a little, Cliffjumper trails after Hoist as he first stops by his desk to pick the sterile flushing apparatus and then heads to the washracks.

            The Medical Bay washracks consist of six stalls, all of them large enough for a mech of Skyfire’s height. Mechs who needs these stalls usually also require a medic or two to assist them, thus the need for the space. The stalls also double as decontamination showers, which fortunately, hadn’t had to be needed in a very long while.

            As they near the first stall, they’re able to hear a soft tenor singing at the other end of the racks. The rushing water makes the words indistinguishable, but both Hoist and Cliffjumper pause to listen to the gentle rise and fall of the melody.

            “Who is that?” Cliffjumper asks. 

            “I’m not sure,” Hoist admits. “But Ratchet and the twins were there earlier, so one of them, I suppose.”

            The voice breaks off and a second later, Sideswipe pokes his head around the stall opening, blinking at them.

            “Oh, hey guys!” he chirps, overly cheerful. “Have you had the wonderful opportunity of getting your gestational tank washed out yet? Very weird, highly recommend.”

            “I recently finished,” Hoist responds just before Cliffjumper replies.

            “How weird?”

            Sideswipe tilts his head to the side. “Pretty weird. Imagine purging a full energon tank, but in the opposite direction out of a completely different… _orifice_.”

            After emphasizing the last word, he winks at someone over his shoulder. He turns back around and nods at Cliffjumper. “You’re in for a super fun time, let me tell you.”

            “Better than having baby plants growing inside me,” Cliffjumper growls back.

            “True that,” Sideswipe says. He considers Cliffjumper, expression softening a bit. “You need any help or anything?” he hesitantly offers.

            “Frag no. Hoist’s got this. Well, and Wheeljack too, I guess.”

            Sideswipe’s orbital ridges raise up. “Wheeljack? Damn. Didn’t know you had to use ordinance first. Ratchet, how come we didn’t get Wheeljack’s explosive assistance?” he asks, leaning back and talking over his shoulder.

            Hoist pings Wheeljack and finds the engineer just entering the main doors of the Medical Bay. He updates him on where they are and returns his attention to Sideswipe.

            “Wheeljack will not be blowing anything up. He’s just here to lend a hand.” Ratchet’s voice floats up from deeper inside the stall and Hoist assumes he’s still working with Sunstreaker.

            Ratchet had given Hoist a quick ping earlier, letting him know that Sunstreaker had surfaced from his fugue state. Hoist had been happy to hear it, worried about how empty Sunstreaker’s optics had been as his brother had led him off the shuttle.

            He wonders if Sunstreaker took Ratchet up on the offer of the numbing gel. Hoist hopes so. While nowhere near as damaged as Cliffjumper was, Sunstreaker had still had some minor abrasions to several areas of his lining.

            “Speak of the Slagmaker,” Sideswipe comments, gaze shifting behind Hoist.         

            Hoist turns and welcomes Wheeljack with a nod. Wheeljack flashes his helm fins at them and waves a hand at Sideswipe.

            “Heya,” he greets, a little more subdued than normal. “Everyone doing ok?”

            “So far so good,” Hoist replies while Cliffjumper shrugs with his normal bravado. No longer interested, Sideswipe ducks back into his own stall.

            “Great. ‘Jack’s here, so can we get started now?” the minibot demands of Hoist.

            “Of course.” Hoist gestures to the stall opening and Cliffjumper takes a step forward before pausing. He turns back and looks down the hall.

            “Sideswipe!”

            Sideswipe pokes his head back out and looks inquiringly at Cliffjumper. “Yeah, short stuff?”

            “No one said you had to stop singing.”

            Sideswipe blinks once and then grins. “I got permission to ~si-ing~!”

            He ducks back through the doorway and Hoist hears Ratchet mutter something too low to catch. Almost immediately, Sideswipe starts up with a raunchy dock song Hoist had heard once or twice before on Cybertron.

            Cliffjumper snorts and shakes his head before entering the stall. “There’s something wrong with that guy,” he comments.

            “’That guy’ brought us home after you, Optimus, _and_ his twin were incapacitated,” Hoist says sharply. “I, for one, was greatly appreciative of his assistance.”

            Cliffjumper’s lips thin, but he nods. “Prime ok?”

            “He was a mite shocky,” Wheeljack supplies, watching Hoist lay out several bottles of sterile flush. “Not surprising, really. He’s doing a lot better now, though.”

            “He already been through this too?”

            Hoist nods, quickly drawing up the sensory block. He gestures for Cliffjumper to turn around and presses the catch for the minibot’s hip port cover. Once the actual port is exposed, he quickly injects the anesthetic and flips the panel shut.

            “Wheeljack, that should take effect in…”

            “Whoops! How about now?” Wheeljack replies, lunging forward to catch Cliffjumper around the waist as his knees start to buckle.

            Cliffjumper doesn’t seem to mind. He actually seems relieved and he doesn’t protest as Wheeljack maneuvers him around to face Hoist. Wheeljack holds him around the waist and chest, snug against the engineer’s body.

            “This ok, buddy?” Wheeljack asks, the minibot’s feet dangling limply.

            “Yeah, it’s fine. How long will this take?” Cliffjumper asks Hoist.

            “It’s chamber size dependent. Out of all of us, you’ll be done the quickest. Optimus was just over an hour, myself about half an hour. The twins should have been somewhere in between. I doubt you’ll take more than fifteen minutes or so,” Hoist muses, connecting the tubing system to the first bottle of flush. He brought in as many bottles as he had used on himself although he doubts he’ll need more than two.

            “Perks of being a mini, huh, CJ?” Wheeljack remarks.

            “Oh, yeah. It’s _great_ being a minibot. When alien plantlife tries to stick babies in you, it’s wonderfully agonizing,” Cliffjumper snaps. Wheeljack’s helmfins pulse a slow peach hue of apology and he slides up one hand to pat Cliffjumper’s shoulder in sympathy.

            “To be fair,” Hoist replies distractedly, applying artificial lubricant to the magnetized end of the flushing apparatus, “the damage you sustained was less due to your size and more your struggles. Sunstreaker was damaged as well and he fought too. Optimus, Sideswipe, and myself sustained no injury.”

            Cliffjumper rolls his optics but doesn’t say anything.

            Hoist takes the silence as permission to continue. “All right. This nozzle,” he says, holding it up, “will be threaded into your valve until it reaches…”

            Cliffjumper waves a hand through the air. “I don’t care. You don’t have to tell me all the details, just get it done, will ya?”

            “Very well.”

            Some mechs wanted to follow along with every step of a procedure; others appreciated ignorance. He supposed he should be grateful that the latter group trusted the medic working on them to get the job done well, but working in silence could also be unnerving.

            Of course, there isn’t actually a whole lot of silence. Both occupied stalls have water running and Sideswipe is still singing at the end of the hall. The first song had ended and now he’s warbling something about love and turbofoxes. It’s light and upbeat and apparently Wheeljack knows it, because he starts humming along.

            “We should talk to Ratchet about getting some music up in here,” Wheeljack comments as Hoist kneels down in front of the two of them. “I’m sure Jazz could find us something to play it on.”

            “Considering how frequently the Twin Terrors are in here, I think you’re all set,” Cliffjumper says wryly. He’s staring straight ahead, refusing to look down.

            Hoist can sympathize. He couldn’t bring himself to watch either and had done it all by touch.

            “Yeah, but right now Sideswipe is fully functional. Who knows what he sounds like when he’s drugged up?”

            “Is Sideswipe ever _really_ functional? He throws himself on top of flying jets… surely there’s something…”

            Cliffjumper trails off and shudders. Hoist leans back and tries to look into his face. “Are you all right, Cliffjumper?”

            “I… it doesn’t hurt, but…” His hands have been lying along the outside of Wheeljack’s arm, and he moves one to point down at his abdomen. “It’s like… pressure…”

            Hoist shuffles back a little as the first stream of green tinted flush begins pouring out of Cliffjumper’s valve.

            “We’re technically adding more liquid to your chamber. It’s at high pressure and will force the foreign contaminant out. This device keeps the iris open fully and gravity assists the drainage,” Hoist explains.

            “Oh.” Cliffjumper closes his optics, hands tightening down around Wheeljack’s arms. “Feels kinda like the tentacles.”

            “Yes, somewhat,” Hoist says. “I apologize. The sensory block was meant to prevent further damage to your valve lining. Its influence will not extend high enough to the chamber itself.”

            “Hn. Right.”

            Hoist and Wheeljack exchange looks. “You know, Sideswipe said the plant was dead. Apparently it lived only long enough to propagate and then it died on its own.”

            “Think it was the only one? Maybe we should blow up that stupid planet to make sure,” Cliffjumper says bitterly.

            “I am not opposed to the idea, myself,” Hoist murmurs, his hands slicking from the continual discharge. Hoist desperately wants to jerk back and rinse the debris off, but he forces himself to wait and endure until Cliffjumper’s chamber has been flushed clean.

            “I am also recommending several sessions with Smokescreen over the following weeks,” Hoist warns Cliffjumper. When silence greets his statement, he looks up again to see Cliffjumper’s optics clenched shut, optical fluid streaming down his face.

            Hoist gently knocks his elbow against Wheeljack’s knee, drawing his attention to it. He wasn’t the best at small talk on a good day, although his patients generally agreed he had a pleasant bedside manner. But Hoist is finding it very difficult to remain here, knees in the swirling puddle of flush and plant debris. He doesn’t have it in him to try and distract Cliffjumper as well.

            Fortunately, Wheeljack is up to the task. He starts nattering on about something inconsequential, urging Cliffjumper into conversation. Once the minibot becomes a little more talkative, Wheeljack prods Cliffjumper into a shouting match with Sideswipe. Soon Wheeljack and Cliffjumper are throwing out song suggestions every few seconds and giggling when Sideswipe starts good-naturedly cursing them because he can’t keep up. He ends up just ignoring their requests, belting out something obnoxious about interfacing.

            As Cliffjumper’s fluids start turning clear again, Sideswipe’s singing quiets. It comes closer and the passes them as Ratchet and the twins finish up and move into the washracks antechamber. Hoist can’t be bothered to watch them pass by, too focused on changing out flush bottles.

            Just like himself, Hoist rinses out Cliffjumper’s chamber for a few minutes longer than needed. It doesn’t hurt to be thorough, he tells himself. He and Wheeljack then wash Cliffjumper from head to toe and Hoist gives himself another quick rinse as well.

            Hoist takes Cliffjumper from Wheeljack so the engineer can rinse off his legs from the spatter. He shifts the minibot into his arms and leaves the stall, walking into the antechamber. What he sees there freezes him in the doorway, Cliffjumper squirming a little to look at what has caught Hoist’s attention.

            “What? What is…oh.”

            Sunstreaker is seated on one of the benches, drying cloth hanging limply from one hand. His other is wrapped around the underside of Sideswipe’s forearm. Sunstreaker’s face is buried in the crook of Sideswipe’s elbow, as if he’s trying to hide. Similarly, Sideswipe’s face is pressed against Ratchet’s shoulder. His other arm is hanging at his side, and both of his hands are clenching in and out of fists.

            Ratchet has a hand on Sideswipe’s nape and is murmuring into his audial as Sideswipe shudders and gasps against Ratchet’s plating. Ratchet looks up and catches Hoist’s gaze, his own pained. As Sideswipe lets out a low keen, Hoist feels a tremor running through his own body, and he looks away from Ratchet’s knowing stare.

            When he thinks about it, it’s not all that surprising that Sideswipe breaks down in front of Ratchet. He’s always had a fondness for the twins and they trust him like no one else. Hoist wishes he experienced that type of closeness with someone but he’s always been a bit of a loner. He and Grapple are friends, but Hoist wouldn’t come to him over this.

            Hoist, much like Sideswipe, had been focused on caring for the others. He had shoved his own experience far to the back of his processor, even though he knew he would need to deal with it eventually. Now that they’d all been rid of that plant’s leavings, he thinks that time might come sooner rather than later. He starts trying to think of a good way to drop the mech in his arms and find a quiet corner to fall apart in.

            “Take us over there,” Cliffjumper says softly.

            Damn. The exact opposite of where he wanted to go.

            He looks down at Cliffjumper to see him staring intently at the twins. “Why?”

            “Just do it,” Cliffjumper says impatiently, thudding his fist against Hoist’s chest.

            Confused, Hoist carries Cliffjumper over until he’s standing directly behind Sideswipe. Ratchet whispers something to Sideswipe and he slowly turns, blinking dazed, wet optics at Hoist and Cliffjumper. The three of them stare at one another for a long moment before Sideswipe shakes himself out of his haze.

            “Sunny,” he calls softly. Sunstreaker’s head rises up and when Sideswipe tugs on his arm, he slowly stands.

             Hoist observes Sunstreaker is nowhere near as catatonic as he had been earlier, although his face is laid bare. He’s no longer the carefully guarded, often haughty mech who routinely gets thrown into the brig. Sunstreaker looks weary and surprisingly young, and Hoist remembers that the twins are some of the youngest mechs on the ship… practically the entire Autobot army.

            “So… uh… kind of a slag-tastic day, huh?” Sideswipe says weakly, optics flicking to Hoist and Cliffjumper and then down to the decking at their feet.

            His lower lip trembles as he says it and something fierce crosses Sunstreaker’s face. He tugs Sideswipe against him in a one armed embrace. As Sideswipe falls into his brother, he reaches out and grabs Hoist’s arm. Hoist stumbles forward at the tug and slams into the twins, neither one of them even budging under the combined weight of Hoist and Cliffjumper.

            He feels hands wrap around his waist from two different directions and realizes Sideswipe and Sunstreaker both have brought him into this little circle. He blinks in confusion at Ratchet over the top of Sideswipe’s shoulder, but his fellow medic doesn’t say anything. He just looks sad.

            “It really, really was,” Cliffjumper mumbles. Hoist looks down and sees that Cliffjumper’s hand has reached up and is clinging to Sunstreaker’s collar fairing. The side of his forehelm is pressed against Sunstreaker’s chest and he is open-mouthed ventilating rapidly. “Thanks for having my back, Sides. All of our backs.”

            “Yeah… well…” Sideswipe trails off and rubs his face against Sunstreaker’s shoulder, appearing embarrassed. “You’re welcome, I guess.”

            “I…” Hoist feels as if he should say something as well. For one, he hadn’t been lying when he had said earlier that Sideswipe had been a great help. Secondly, Sideswipe is in obvious distress. They all are. His medic training demands he support these mechs somehow, but all of his scans reveal nothing physical he can fix.

            And much like in the washrack stall, he can’t find the words. His own dark thoughts have robbed him of coherency.

            “I don’t…”

            His engine hiccups, and Cliffjumper immediately leans up, wrapping his small arm around Hoist’s neck. “You did good, doc,” he whispers. “Fixed me right up, didn’tcha?”

            Hoist shakes his head a little, because that’s his job, and no one’s ever really thanked him for it before, and…

            Suddenly he’s moving sideways, and he lands against another mech’s chestplate. There’s gold and black at the edge of his vision and he realizes Sunstreaker has crushed Hoist to himself and is holding on tightly.

            It’s… it’s nice… Sunstreaker somehow manages to smell like freshly applied wax, even if Hoist knows there would have been no time in which to do that. There’s none of that musky scent of the plant surrounding him anymore and when he sways and his knees buckle, there are two arms which hold onto him and keep him standing.

             He’s of a heavier mass than both twins put together and he’s holding onto Cliffjumper as well. It’s not a small amount to support, but they show no signs of strain. The twins are strong, independent. How must it have felt to have been rendered so helpless, so impotent? This at least, they can manage. They can keep Hoist on his feet, they can distract Cliffjumper with jokes and singing.

            So Hoist lets them support him. Lets himself feel the press of fingers and hands and arms and chests and commits them to memory. When the recall purges happen later, he’ll have these to overwrite them with.

            Hoist loses track of time, his ventilations naturally falling into sync with the others. He doubts their sparks beat as one because one of them is a minibot and two of them are spark-split twins, but it’s a nice thought that maybe they could.

            Then Sideswipe shifts, his chin digging into Hoist’s shoulder.

            “Anyone else feel like we’re not including someone?” he suggests quietly. “Prime could probably use a little puppypile right about now.”

            Hoist’s optics pop open in shock behind his visor. The Prime?! Crawl atop the _Prime_ and ask their leader to cuddle them?

            And then he remembers the blank look on Optimus’ face, the way Sideswipe had had to hold his hand and lead him out of the cave. How strong Optimus is, stronger than the twins, and held just as immobile, subjected to the same bodily invasion as the rest of them had been.

            “I think that would be an excellent endeavor,” Hoist replies.          


	4. Cliffjumper

            It’s a crazy idea. Tracking down Optimus Prime so they all can give him a hug. It had been one thing to curl up against the twins, two mechs he had always routinely fought with. That had been weird enough. But Prime?

            Yet, there is something to the suggestion Cliffjumper can’t say no to. The same something that made him tell Hoist to take them to the twins.

            Besides. It’s not like he can run away. Cliffjumper’s legs are still nonresponding. The sensory block should wear off in another hour, but until then, someone has to lug him around and Wheeljack had already snuck past them during their blubberfest.

            Cliffjumper would be embarrassed, but honestly? He’s run out. He’s got none left. The last of it washed down the drain with the rest of the mess flushed out of his body. Oh, he’ll get more, he’s sure of it, but for now the emotional portion of his processor is just as empty as his gestation chamber.

            Sideswipe leads them to Optimus’ quarters, like he’s been leading them everywhere today. Cliffjumper grudgingly admits Sideswipe saved their collective afts today. Not just piloting them back, but keeping his mouth going; reassuring them, distracting them. Cliffjumper never thought that never shutting up was an asset, but apparently, sometimes it is.

            The red menace doesn’t even knock. He just opens the door and goes in like he’s done it a hundred times before. It makes Cliffjumper wonder, until he sees the surprised expression on Optimus’ face.

            “Sideswipe? Sunstreaker? What... Hoist? Cliffjumper?! Are you all alright?” Optimus demands, swinging his feet off his berth and to the floor.

            Sideswipe comes to a stop in the middle of the room and props a hand on an outstretched hip. “Prime… none of us are alright, including you. And cuddles aren’t the answer to everything, but they’re a start.”

            Cliffjumper watches in astonishment as Sideswipe wearily trudges over and climbs into the Prime’s berth without so much as a by-your-leave. After a moment of hesitation, Sunstreaker follows him, and they slot together up against the wall.

            Poor Prime’s optics are practically bulging out of his head as he turns his attention to Hoist and then beyond. “Ratchet? What is going on?!”

            Ratchet had followed them the whole way here, a hand on Hoist’s back in support. It had been his override code that had unlocked Optimus’ door for Sideswipe to barge through. Now Ratchet leans against the doorsill and crosses his arms over his chest.

            “They wanted to come see you. It’s Smokescreen approved, so don’t even think of kicking them out or leaving yourself,” he says. He’s not actually smiling, but he still manages to look amused.

            He steps away from the door to gently push Hoist’s shoulder. “Go on. He won’t bite. Give Cliffjumper to Optimus and climb up.”

            Hoist has gone a little silent since their fourway hug in the Medical Bay. Not that Cliffjumper can blame him. Much like Sideswipe, he deserves a break from being ‘on’. It’s telling that he obeys Ratchet without even a hint of protest and soon Cliffjumper is being passed to Optimus Prime like some sort of toy.

            Damn his size.

            Ratchet comes over and next pokes at Optimus’ arm. Still shocked, he lies back down, Cliffjumper resting atop his wide chest. Hoist is last, Optimus automatically lifting his arm for the medic to burrow under. From his vantage point, Cliffjumper watches Sunstreaker slide over, his back firmly pressed against Optimus’ side. Sideswipe follows, flinging his arm over his twin’s waist and tucking his fingers into a seam in Optimus’ hip.

            “There. Everyone comfortable?” Ratchet asks, stepping back and surveying them all.

            “Totally,” Sideswipe pipes up. “Prime, you’ve been holding out on us. This bed is super comfy.”

            “I’m happy you like it,” Optimus says softly. Cliffjumper looks up and see Optimus staring down at him, his face rapidly flashing from one expression to another. Cliffjumper ducks his head at the look of agonizing guilt and realizes maybe Sideswipe and Ratchet had been right. Optimus needs this. He needs to know they don’t blame him in the slightest.

            Well, Cliffjumper’s not shy. If he’s going to sleep on top of his leader, he’s going to get into a better position. He flings himself to his side, then his front, his legs flopping along behind him.

            As soon as he settles, Optimus’ warm palm descends on his back, covering it in its entirety. Which is … comforting. Having all of them here is comforting, actually. Not a one of them had been able to do a damn thing against that plant but be its living receptacles. Their strength and their skills and their weaponry all meant nothing. They had all been made equal in the experience.

            Cliffjumper had a long lasting grudge against the twins. He respected although rarely interacted with Prime on a one to one basis. Hoist was a medic who had repaired Cliffjumper many a time before, but it wasn’t like they ever even spoke to each another outside Medical. And now here they all were, together, in Optimus Prime’s bed.

            Strangers united.

            Far too slagging poetic for the likes of Cliffjumper.

            He closes his eyes, initiates recharge, and escapes away from the weirdness.


	5. Sunstreaker

_Go to sleep._

_I can’t._

_You need to rest at least, Sunny,_ Sideswipe says impatiently. _Just relax._

_I can’t!_

            How could Sideswipe expect him to relax? How did he ever expect him to feel safe enough again to do so?

            _Love… there wasn’t anything you could have done. Anything any of us could have done. Plant-thing is dead. We’re off that planet, back on the Ark. We’ll never be_ totally _safe; you know that. But this is as good as it gets. Rest._

            Of course he knew they were never completely safe. But he had gotten complacent. Lulled himself into thinking there wasn’t anything unexpected coming. Life was war now and he knew war. He knew battles and guns and even interrogation.

            He didn’t know alien plants that held you down and inserted tentacles into you and made you overload because of it. Sunstreaker didn’t know how to reconcile that.

            Sideswipe nuzzles Sunstreaker’s cheek, the motion soft and reassuring. But Sunstreaker stiffens under the touch.

            Because that’s the other thing.

            He had damaged this today. He had left his twin to deal on his own, in a way Sunstreaker hadn’t done since they had been sparklings. He had left Sideswipe to carry Sunstreaker’s worthless frame on top of everyone else’s. Sunstreaker had only managed to find his way back when Sideswipe’s overwhelming fear had finally topped his own.

            _You came back to me. That’s all that matters,_ Sideswipe whispers.

            Sideswipe’s the good one. The kind one. He probably means it. But Sunstreaker wouldn’t. If their positions had been reversed, he’d have resented his brother. Because Sunstreaker is the bad one. The insane one.

            _Stop it. Whatever you’re thinking, stop it. I can feel the negativity wafting off you; it’s making my plating itch._

 _You should be bonded to someone better than me,_ Sunstreaker replies sullenly. And then he waits.

            And waits.

            Sideswipe doesn’t respond like he normally does, doesn’t indulge in Sunstreaker’s passive-aggressive search for reassurance, and something in Sunstreaker’s spark constricts down tight.

            … _Sides?_

            _Sunny… it would have been great if you hadn’t drawn in yourself. Really great. Like… super great. It sucked first hearing you screaming in the back of my head and then not making a sound. Do you have any idea how terrifying that was?_ Sideswipe asks softly.

            _Well, the next time we merge, you’ll see,_ Sideswipe says, continuing over Sunstreaker’s meek protest. _But you know what? You weren’t the only one. Cliff checked out completely. Hoist buried himself in repairing Cliffjumper. Optimus fragging Prime essentially turned into a child. So you retreating too? You weren’t special, bro._

            _I think the only reason I didn’t fall apart too is that it’s base coded in us to protect the other. This was my turn to protect you. Then you turned right around and had my back when I needed it. We each have our strengths and our weaknesses. We offset each other._

 _I never want anyone other than you,_ Sideswipe says fiercely. He takes hold of Sunstreaker’s face in the dark and keeps him still long enough for Sideswipe’s lips to find his.

            It’s a painful kiss, too rough and full of denta, but in a way, it helps.

            Sunstreaker’s spark blossoms back open and sends a pulse of love across their bond. Sideswipe responds in kind and sighs against Sunstreaker’s lips.

            “Are you with me?” he whispers, barely loud enough for Sunstreaker’s audials to catch.

            Surrounded by four other idling engines, one the perfect match to his own, Sunstreaker finally relaxes. He lets himself go limp. He’s as safe as he can get for the moment, and that’s all there ever is. Their entire lives have taught them that. Taught them that there’s always someone bigger, always someone tougher, and stronger, and meaner. Taught them that nothing is truly safe.

            Nothing but each other.

            “Always.”


	6. Epilogue - Optimus

           Optimus stares up at the ceiling, his spark quiet for the first time all day. Sunstreaker is a solid line of heat along his left side and Hoist is buried beneath his right arm. Cliffjumper’s small frame is curled up atop Optimus’ windshield, lightly snoring. And the fingers tucked into Optimus’ left hip seam serve as a reminder that Sideswipe is within arm’s length.

            He still can’t get over his initial shock of witnessing them all file into his quarters. He had been worried that the next time he saw them, there would be accusation in their optics. But all he saw was a weary sort of desperation, one that eased once they curled up around him.

            It helps to know his mere presence can do that.  

            He is here for them… and they are here for him. He’s not protecting them; the five of them have created a united shield against the darkness.

            Optimus is still big… still strong.  

            But he’s not alone.

 

 

~ End


End file.
